


Of Memories and Mothers

by zombiesbecrazy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batboys and their moms, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiesbecrazy/pseuds/zombiesbecrazy
Summary: When your mother is no longer with you, you find things that remind you of her to keep her close.





	Of Memories and Mothers

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Mother's Day!

He grinned as his fingers curled around the metal bar.

It had been a little while, not since he last flew but since he had been on his trapeze rig, and the electricity that he felt on the platform was like a time machine. An excited kid all over again.

It was always like that now.

He leapt from the platform and swung back and forth, warming up to the feeling and gaining momentum. He had been doing this since before he could remember, before he was born to be honest, so it wasn’t a surprise that his oldest memory was one of flying through the air on the bar. He could recall himself swinging, swinging, swinging until he heard his mother’s voice call out the release word and he let go only to be caught by her strong hands. She hadn’t been a catcher in the show, but she had insisted that when her small robin was first learning to fly, that she be the one to make sure he didn’t fall. He probably had only flown for a second, mere inches, but it was amazing.

Dick wasn’t sure if that was actually the first time he had let go of the bar on his own, but it was definitely the first time that he could remember it.

He released now and caught the other bar. Nothing fancy. No flips or tricks, just a simple release and catch, but with his eyes closed he could see his mother’s smile. Her words of encouragement in his ears. The extra squeeze from her hands that she gave to show how proud she was of him.

He continued in his solo routine, adding in more and more complicated tricks as he went until his arms were burning and crying out for a break. At last, he released his grip and dropped, landing in the net below. He laid there with his eyes closed and catching his breath in deep gulps, like the way they used to after practicing.

It was then that he could feel her the most. Almost like she was lying beside him.

 

* * *

 

The book was old. Not _‘first edition, collector’s item’_ old, but _‘worn with the spine cracked, cover faded,  pages dog eared and worn, a few pages being held together with tape, and notes scribbled in the margin’_ old. Jason had several copies of the book in his possession, at least one copy in each of his safe houses, but this copy was the one he read the most. The one that he treasured the most.

This one had been her favourite. The one that she had owned since high school and had been a used copy even then. The one that she had taught him how to read with at six years old, curled up on the threadbare sofa in their one bedroom apartment in Crime Alley. Where they were safe and protected from anything going on outside their door.

Most kids had fairy tales or exciting adventure books filled with bright pictures. Jason had Pride and Prejudice.

He knew now that he hadn’t understood any of it at the time. As a child he knew most of the words separately, but the sentences didn’t really come together in a way that made a lot of sense.  What he did know was how it made him feel; warm and close and snug curled up to his mother, listening to her soft voice as he drifted off to sleep.  When things got bad, and she was sick, their roles reversed. He was the one reading to her, speaking to well-known words to her by her bedside while she slept. He knew it would always calm her down.

When he did actually learn what the book was trying to say, it brought on a new meaning. He was not defined by his past. He could do anything. His mother had wanted him to learn that from her; that she thought anything was possible for him, even if things didn’t always go his way all of the time. He wouldn’t say that it was his favourite book, not even his favourite Austen book if he was being truthful, but it was the one he cherished the most so it was on days that he wanted to feel close to her that he curled up on his apartment with a cup of tea and read from the well loved pages.

This is the way he liked to remember her, from both the good times and the bad.

 

* * *

 

Putting his hands into the dirt made him think of her instantly.

If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t have a lot of memories of his mother; not compared to memories of school, or playing by himself or spending time following his heroes’ adventures. But there was one particular day with his mother that he remembered with vivid clarity.

His parents had been home and she asked him how things were going at school. Tim had explained that they had been talking about what their parents did for work, and he had been embarrassed that he didn’t actually know. He knew that they travelled, but the teacher had explained that someone couldn’t just travel professionally, and that they must be doing something when they were away. His mother had looked surprised and then walked out of the room without a word. He was worried that she was angry with him so had gone to his room to read quietly until she felt better. Only ten minutes later though, she was back, with a smile on her face, and led him down to the backyard.

To his sandbox.

She handed him a small toy shovel and told him to start digging. He had proceeded slowly, not sure what was happening, until his spade hit something hard. Curious, he kept digging until he was able to pull out a flat rock that looked like it had bones carved into it. He smiled as he showed it to her and she explain that she and his father worked on archeological digs where they dug up things from the past for historians to learn from and share. That the rock was a fossil of a very old bird that she had dug up for him. And if he kept digging, he might find some more treasures.

They had dug together in the dirt for hours.

Mostly grown now, Tim didn’t have a sandbox but he did have a small garden on his balcony. Every time he reached his hands in to tend to the plants or repot something, he remembered the day that his mom played with him in his sandbox and smiled.

 

* * *

 

He rolled the new pencil between his fingers, getting a feel for how it felt in his grasp. Even though it was theoretically the same as the pencil that it was replacing, he knew that it was different. A new tool to be mastered. Just like all weapons.

It had started like all other aspects of his training. He was expected to be the best and to be able to rise to any task. Martial arts, weapons, languages, mathematics, geography, strategic planning were part of his regular tutelage and being skilled with a pencil or paint was just another requirement of his education. He needed to be able to produce anything from his fingertips. Forgeries and reproductions could be very useful to the League of Assassins.

The first picture that he drew for his own pleasure was of her. Of his mother.

She had been sitting at a window, looking at something that he couldn’t see. He was supposed to be studying French at the time but had quietly asked if it would be alright with her if he switched to art production for now and return to his assigned French reading later in the afternoon. She had raised an eyebrow to him in question before nodding and turning back to the window.

He couldn’t explain it, but there was something about her that had just needed to be drawn immediately. For close to an hour he sketched her, proficiently like he had been taught, but adding in aspects from his imagination. Curls in her hair, a upturn to her lips, and a faraway look in her eyes. She looked… happier on paper.

He had been nervous to show her, knowing that she may just tear it up for not being one of the tasks from his art curriculum, but she did not. Instead she smiled and took it with her when she left the room. He later saw it sitting on display in her quarters and was pleased that she had liked it.

Now, pencil feeling like an old friend between his fingers, he started to sketch once more. He started to draw her again, this time from memory and in a way that he hoped she was. Happy.


End file.
